


Predator in Crimson

by onpage26



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:09:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onpage26/pseuds/onpage26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You spy Benedict Cumberbatch from across the room, but he has different plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predator in Crimson

He sits with one leg casually draped over the over, leaning back in his chair looking for his prey. The black tuxedo fits him exquisitely, and even from the distance you can tell, every scrap of fabric was chosen with care to create such a visual masterpiece. One look from across the room draws you in like a moth to a flame. Two ocean blue eyes look at you as if you are the only one in the room. Your hand shakes slightly, jarring the drink you hold and you take a deep breath; both to calm yourself but to also remind yourself that this dress, this crimson silk confection of sin, was the reason you came here tonight. Every asset you have shimmers in the candle light. You have one goal, to conquer; who, it matters not.

Keeping your eye on him, you slowly navigate the room. Tables, people, chairs, and drinks create obstacles, but you are determined. He is the one you will conquer, the man with the rakish brown hair, the patrician face, the piercing eyes, and the lithe form. As you draw near, your confidence waivers; you realize this man will only be conquered if he allows is, more to the point, he will conquer you and never let you forget it. His eyes flick to the floor and slowly draw up your figure, taking in the way the dress caresses your every curve. By the time his gaze reaches your face the hungry look on his face says nothing of desire in his eyes.

He gracefully rises to his feet, the fabric shifting across muscles that you ache to run your hands across. His hand takes your chin, and forces your gaze to meet his; as his other snakes around your waist drawing you closer. He angles your face as he lowers his, your eyes flutter shut and your hands reach for him as the barest of kisses brush your lips. You try to move your head closer but his hand holds you still and a slight sound rumbles in his chest. You wouldn’t call it a laugh it is far too primitive for that. It’s predatory, dangerous, dark, and sensual. His lips brush yours again, and again, slowly pressing you closer; till finally you are flush against him, thigh to thigh and chest to chest. Then, and only then, does he crush his lips against yours, demanding everything you have with his lips, his tongue. It strips away any mask you thought to be wearing tonight; all that exists is his lips on yours and his hand holding you to him. You kiss him back with such veracity it gives him pause, but only for a second, his hand releases your face and holds the back of your head to better deepen the kiss. Your hands cling to him, grasping his hair, his back, anything that can bring you closer to him.

How long you two stand kissing, you know not. When he releases you, you feel flushed, your dress feels too tight too constricting for what you want. Too much fabric stands between you and your prize. You look to his face asking, pleading, begging for him to ease the ache that he caused. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a card and slowly slides it into the front of your dress, his fingers caressing the tops of your breasts in the process. You shudder with need. He takes your hand and while stepping back, presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “Madam,” he says as he kisses your palm. He stands and with a nod, walks off.

You are far too stunned to register where he went. You sink into the chair he vacated and with trembling hands pull out the card; all it had was a number. You draw in a breath, trying desperately to compose yourself; you search for your cell in your clutch and without hesitation you call the number.

“You didn’t wait long.” His deep tenor voice eases over you, a balm to the burn he left on your lips. “Meet me at the back door, ten minutes. If you aren’t there in time, I will leave without you,” there was an edge to his voice now, “Do you understand?” You breathe out a yes, eyes darting about the room searching for the quickest way to the back door. Without running, you push your way to the back, knocking chairs, people, and drinks out of your way. You keep glancing at your phone, only minutes remain, faster you push, desperation evident in your face. One minute remains, and you are a strides length from the door. One of the wait staff tries to detain you, “That’s an emergency exit only Miss,” you try to shove past but to no avail. The ten minutes are up, his is gone and you didn’t even give him your name.

You slump against the wall, and dial the number again not sure what to say so you say nothing, “I am disappointed, but I’m sure we can work out some arrangement. Meet me tomorrow, same place same time and same dress. We will try this again.” The line goes dead; in disbelief you make your way to the bar and order a drink. Tomorrow, tomorrow you will let him conquer you, let him push you, let him in you; no matter how hard you have to beg. You go home, undress in a fog, trying to sort reality from dreams you never knew you had. You need sleep, for tomorrow you won’t.

That next day you take time with how you get ready, hair just so, perfume in all the right places, makeup expertly done. You look in the mirror, not recognizing the woman looking back at you. She looks powerful, sensual, a vixen ready to do battle; you feel nervous, and entirely self-aware. You arrive early, order a drink and make your way directly to the table. You try not to fiddle with your drink, try not to give away how tightly strung you are. A hand grasps the nape of your neck, and a voice whispers in your ear, “Stand, don’t speak, and follow me.” He walks around you and helps you to your feet, you mutely walk behind him. At the front door he turns, “This is the last chance you have to walk away. You walk through those doors and you are mine. Completely and utterly mine.” He gives your shoulder a gentle shake, “do you understand that?” you nod. You walk through the doors, a sense of liberation takes you by surprise; and as you step into the car waiting for you both you fight the urge to smile.

A silk tie quickly covers your eyes, you gasp. “Hush my dear, we can’t have you telling people where I live now can we,” his voice so close to your ear. His fingers brush against your chin, down your neck, and follow the neck line of your dress. Little whispers of contact to your skin, you turn to him giving him better access to you but before he can touch you, truly touch you, the car stops and you are carried out. Up a few stairs, through a door, then up another set of stair, winding down a hall and through another door till you are set down. He steads you on your feet, you reach to remove the tie, but he stops you and guides your hands back to your sides. Your feel him slowly run his hands up your sides, and reach the zipper to the dress. With a painful slowness he unzips the dress, pressing hot kisses to each inch of exposed skin, following the zipper down to the base of your spine. His hands reach both of your shoulders and slowly draw the dress off of you, letting his fingertips brush against your breasts, your nipples, your waist, and your hips till the dress finally falls and pools at your feet. The dress doesn’t lend itself to undergarments, you stand before him naked say for your shoes and the tie.

His hands, a first gentle then becoming bolder and rougher, run over you. Squeezing, caressing, pinching, feeling every inch of you. Your breath hitches as each pass of his hands brings his finger closer to where you desperately need them. Involuntarily your hips thrust forward, offering yourself up to him without hesitation. You reach for him, but he pushes your hands aside, “No,” he says with a strained voice, “you are to keep your hands to yourself until I say otherwise.” You open your mouth to speak a protest, but it is swallowed by the moan that escapes your lips when his close over your nipple. He suckles, then ever so slightly bites. Your hand shoot to his head unable to control them, he stops his adulations and roughly takes your hands from his head. Without warning he binds them behind your back, a slightly struggle on your part indicates that you won’t be able to free yourself. You are completely at his mercy, and his is not showing any signs of giving you any. His mouth returns to its feast, and his fingers slowly make their down your stomach. Again your hips thrust forward on their own accord, and finally he acquiesce your request. A finger slides inside, then another, and another. They move in time with his mouth, slow but with determination. His thumb brushes against your clitoris and you cry out. He moves his hand harder and faster, bringing you closer to what you need; but each time you get close, he backs off. You are leaning against him, your legs long since gave up on holding you. You whimper, and plead, and finally he lets you come. It’s powerful, and what little strength you had left in your legs goes, you would have fallen to the ground but he catches you and kisses you as he carries you to bed.

He unties your hands, and tosses you gently onto the bed. You lay there recovering and listening as you hear clothing being removed, after a few moments a dip in the bed indicates he is finally joining you. His long, muscular body brushes against yours, and finally you feel what you have been aching for – a pleasantly large, hard, cock presses against you. You moan, and start grinding your hips against him, you are treated to a moan of his own. You feel delightfully empowered, and grind harder. He kisses you with such passion you are momentarily distracted by your goal. His hands take yours and draw them above your head, and lashes them to the head board, it doesn’t matter you have him right where you want him. A quick fumble next to your head, a rip of plastic, and hand guides his now encased cock to you. You think it will be slow, just like everything had been. Slow, as if he had all the time in the world. As if all that mattered was to make you feel like a goddess. No, he slams into you with such force you are stunned, he starts thrusting and after a few moments you pick up his rhythm. Meeting him thrust for thrust. You come first, crying out his name as you do, “Benedict.” He keeps thrusting, moaning, and finally he comes with a groan. He slumps, breathing heavily. He places a light kiss to your nose before extracting himself from you, he climbs off the bed and cleans himself. When he returns he unties your hands, you are so sated you fall asleep in his arms not even bothering to remove the scarf that covers your face.

When morning comes, you open your eyes and stretch. Every muscle in your body is sore but you know it was worth it. Until you look around, you are at your flat, in your bed, in your pajamas with no indication that you ever spent the night with Benedict Cumberbatch. A note on your lamp eases that sense of regret, “Thank you for a wonderful evening. I’m keeping your dress. If you want it back, call me”. You smile, wondering what you will have to do to get it back.

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at "true" smut. I'll confess this was inspired in part by "The Last Enemy".  
> Also still working on how to define Mature vs explicit - suggestions are appreciated.


End file.
